


Good Evening, Mrs. Lestrade

by SilverMiko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aliases, Anthea Is Quite a Bit Not Good, F/M, Lestrade is an obvious flirt, Romance, Undercover, estranged couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-07 02:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: Anthea has a lot on her plate as Mycroft Holmes' Chief of Staff; operations to plan, intel to gather, and oh, running into her ex and having her long-term cover fizzle up in a matter of minutes. Lestrade finds everything he thought he knew to be true for the past decade to be a lie, gone up in smoke. And he had thought the worst thing his wife had done was the PE teacher; if only that were so.





	1. Of All the Gin Joints...

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know how this pairing struck me, but here we are and let's just enjoy the ride!

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.” - Irene Adler, “A Scandal In Belgravia

***

 

2016, London 

 

Between crap intel, dead end leads, and some very tedious PMT, Anthea was having a banner day. It didn’t help that the current high-profile assignment she was helping to oversee was hitting a maddening snag. It also did not help running into her ex and his new girlfriend earlier in the week at, of all places, a Sainsbury Local at quarter to midnight when she was wearing an old sweatshirt and looking weary. Didn’t help said new girlfriend might have been a pale mirror to her, but then her ex apparently had a type. It wasn’t as if it hurt her feelings or anything, but he could have at least not been so bloody obvious. Whatever, it was his life and hers was hers and it had never been anything serious anyway.  
‘Nothing serious? Right....’ the snarky inner voice in her head whispered. It had been nothing more than convenience and now it was nothing more than a memory in the past.   
She was itching for something; a drink, a fight, or anything to break her out of this utterly rubbish standstill that made her week irritatingly stagnant. She looked to her phone, being unusually quiet. Her hand almost crept to text Mycroft, for something, any scrap of action.   
But Anthea never begged, and she was not about to start.  
After a few more hours of reviewing reconnaissance and finding no epiphanies, she was ready to bag off for a night home trying for a cozy bubble bath in her empty flat’s too-small tub and a glass of Syrah. It was the way many nights had gone the past year,, since the paperwork had gone through and she had to pick up the flimsy shell of her public life and move house. She’d traded Hammersmith for Victoria, and while it was closer to the liveliness of the City she was surprised to find it underwhelming to be back so close to the heart of things. Blimey, perhaps she had gotten too suburban over the years. Mycroft still teased her about it on the occasion, and she just rolled her eyes at his commentary. He could snark all he wanted, he’d be entirely lost without her and his operations would likely fall apart the moment she and her quick-texting fingers weren’t in the picture. So she tolerated his jibes, sometimes they were rather funny. It wasn’t as if he didn’t go home to an empty place and even emptier kitchen every day as well.  
Maybe that’s why they worked so well together, they understood each other well and she was one of the only people in their organization below him that could, within reason, stand up to him. Also, he paid well and never got caught up in her pretty looks like others in the Home Office had when she was coming up in the field. Oh, she was pretty, and bloody brilliant and capable of snapping a man’s bones in dozens of places without a thought.  
A soft ping filled her quiet office. Ah, speak of the umbrella-wielding devil.  
She swiped her phone’s passcode in and read the text message, a grin quirking up on her lips.  
Finally, her night was about to get very interesting!  
If only she knew, as she rushed out the door to stop by her flat for a necessary wardrobe change, just how interesting things were about to turn out; she might have opted for the bubble bath in the end.

 

***

It was one of those hazy nights where the stars found London unworthy, the pavement sheened like an oil slick,and Greg Lestrade wished desperately for a pack of cigarettes and to be about twenty years younger as he chased the suspect through Bayswater, panting. The man in question was potentially linked to a string of murders, and Sherlock had finally sussed out a lead. The consulting detective was coming from another block, in an attempt to flush the suspect out and close in at multiple angles. Catching the man would be the break Lestrade needing this week. Between no previous leads and the still haunting presence of his wife (former wife, his mind corrected) in his life, he’d been feeling frustrated and a bit low. Katie, the forensics officer he’d started seeing, was lovely but even her company did nothing to help.  
The suspect weaved again around a corner, likely heading for Paddington. Bollocks, if he was able to slip away on a train they’d be set back on the case yet again. Where the bloody hell was Sherlock?! The man gained a sizeable lead, turning around another dark alleyway corner until a minor scuffle ahead was heard. Greg hoped it wasn’t a civilian caught up in this, that’d the last thing they needed.  
He heard a gunshot, slowing his pace and drawing his own firearm as he eased his way to the corner, hugging tightly the brick and feeling it scrape against the cheap cotton of his shirt. Cautiously, he rounded the corner and came upon the last thing he expected to see: a 5’8” brunette standing over the unconscious body of the suspect, a baton in one hand and a Blackberry in the other.   
“What the bloody hell?” he squealed, jaw dropping.  
She looked up, ready to ignore the intrusion until she recognized the man before for. She lowered the phone for a moment, arching an eyebrow.  
“Hello, Inspector. Are we really at the point of shooting each other now?”  
Before Greg could reply, Sherlock came at his heels with his coat flapping to a standstill. He took one look at the scene before him, his face scrunching up.  
“It figures, Fatty’s got his fingers in this pie too, then?”  
“Hello to you too, Sherlock, I see your manners are as stellar as ever.”   
She lowered her attention back to her phone, hitting send.  
“I take it you already informed him you’ve got your man?”  
“Mmm, a man anyway.”  
After blinking a few times, Greg finally found his tongue able to work again and tore his gaze away from the brunette before them and to Sherlock.  
“You know her?”  
“Of course I do, she’s Mycroft’s right-hand man or woman, I should say, do keep up, Greg!”  
His eyes widened and he looked back at the woman.   
“You work for Mycroft?!”  
“I’m sure you have questions but now really is an awful time. Rain check?” she asked, with a cheeky smile.  
He blinked again, feeling like an owl. God, this infuriating woman!   
“Rain check? Andi, what the hell is going on?”  
“Andi? Some diminutive of Anthea, perhaps? Then you have met?” Sherlock asked, confused for once and it gave Greg a small amount of satisfaction to not be alone in that for once.  
The woman, blast her to hell, had the gall to glance up and shrug at them. As he shuffled from foot to foot trying to wrap his head around this new development, feeling his skin grow hot and his temper start to unravel, his constable, PC Frank Clarke, finally showed up.  
“Did we get him?” the PC asked, stopping short next to Greg and Sherlock, catching his breath and scratching at his red hair.  
“Someone did anyway, so catch your breath, Clarkie, before you expire,” Sherlock drawled, not taking his gaze away.  
The constable waved his hand, indicating he’d be fine. He finally took in the scene before them, looking from the unconscious suspect, to Sherlock and Greg, and finally the tall brunette.  
“Er, good evening, Mrs. Lestrade, what are you doing here?”

 

2006, London

 

It was nights like this, London pulsing with drunk lads and glowing a bit too brightly, that the woman who had gone by the name Anthea found herself cursing the stubborn fraternal attachment her boss had for his troublesome little brother. Oh, Sherlock Holmes was almost nearly as brilliant as Mycroft, but he was also too much like a frenetic, excited beast with zero impulse control. Volatile, far too much so. Normally she wouldn’t lower herself to dealing with family dramas but Holmes the Younger was far too clever and had stumbled upon just a few too many secrets pertaining to queen and country. Far too clever and far too much an addict. To redirect his addictive personality, Sherlock had begun working New Scotland Yard and enacting his ridiculous detective fantasties.   
And so, Holmes the Older was happy to let his dear brother roam amongst the ‘goldfish’ but this time he wanted dossiers. She’d spent ages in various deserts, in deep cover on some of the nastiest battle fronts and the darkest underworlds, and now she could add the ever impressive Southwark to the list. In a cheap denim skirt and even cheaper boots, she fit right in thanks to some generous lashings of mascara and a heavy hand with blush. The chips were cold, the beer too warm, and the neighborhood lads far too handsy.   
She tilted back a bit more from her bar stool, glancing towards the front booth of the pub where Sherlock sat with the police officer who was his contact, a dark-haired man who she couldn’t get a clear look at. She was to simply observe and report back, nothing more. Be discreet, be descriptive, be done in a few hours. So far she’d tailed them from Fenchurch to Borough, managing to procure a seat at the bar unnoticed. He’d only met her twice before, but once was enough for a Holmes.   
“Oi, by yourself? ‘Cuz you’re way too cute for that.”  
Anthea sighed, her gaze narrowing and sliding to the far too flashy, far too tacky-looking chav currently trying to pull.   
“Go away,” she said, whirling a finger into a loop and pointing to the opposite direction.  
“Oh come on, don’t be like that, babe, I can be such a great time,” he said, leaning in more. She slide her glance back to Sherlock’s table, tensing when she saw he was sliding out to the door and the officer was now nowhere in sight.  
“Bollocks,” she muttered under her breath. She grabbed the chav by the chain dangling from his neck and pulled sharp enough to hit his head against the bar. Without a word or apology, she grabbed her beer and shuffled as inconspicuous as possible at the point to the exit. The cold night air hit her as she whipped her head around, finding no sight of her target. She groaned, rolling her eyes and cursing ever lad in Britain. She seldom failed, and to miss a beat on such a pithy assignment as this? She’d never live it down. Goodbye Chief of Staff candidacy, hello bottom of the barrel assignments.  
There had to be some way to salvage the night, losing was not an option. As she whipped around to bring her pint back inside to leave, someone bumped into and she felt sudden wetness soak down the front of her sweater.  
“Oh Christ, sorry about that!”  
A pair of large male hands reached out in some half-hearted attempt to pat at her sweater, which did nothing more but look like an attempt to feel her up. Eyes narrowed and patient worn thin, she snapped her head up ready to tear this latest imposer a new arsehole when the words immediately died on her lips.  
Dark hair combed back and neatly parted save for a lock spilling over his forehead, dark coffee-colored eyes, wonderfully arched eyebrows, and the beginnings of smile lines. He wore a black moto jacket over a plain grey button down, and she could easily tell it was a gun in his pocket and not him happy to see her.   
Ah, now she had solid descriptors to work with as she found herself face to face with an apologetic Gregory Lestrade, Detective Sergeant of New Scotland Yard. From the tobacco aroma clinging to his clothes, she surmised he’d been sneaking out for a smoke and likely heading back inside when their paths literally crossed.  
It was, she thought with a smile, one of those times the universe rarely being so lazy completely worked in her favor.  
“It’s fine, though most men are more subtle in trying to get my shirt off,” she quipped, flashing him a winning smile as she stripped off the sweater and balled it up into her handbag. Luckily she’d had a plain tee shirt on underneath and staining hadn’t gotten all the way through. The flirting came easy, he was a good-looking man after all. A bit older by a fair amount of years, clearly mid-to-late thirties, but he was handsome in a warm, near impish way.   
“Wow,” he said, grinning back with a laugh, “I suppose I need to re-work my material. Can I buy you another drink?”  
“I don’t know, I have a rule about strangers.”  
He then whipped his hand up and out, calling her bluff.  
“Greg Lestrade, nice to meet you…?”  
“Andrea,” she said, gripping his hand firmly and shaking, “Andrea Jones.”  
“Look at that, not strangers anymore! So how about a pint?”  
She smirked and took his arm, letting him guide her inside. She needed the intel, and maybe this time her beer would be cold. Short of that, she’d at least have completed her assignment for the night successfully.  
As it turned out, chatting up Greg Lestrade wasn’t as awful a chore as she’d initially thought. He seemed to share her decided candid opinion on lad culture.  
“Some of them are alright blokes but it’s honestly the little shits thinking it’s a laugh to throw bricks at the foxes or rob a Tesco’s that drive me mental. And the clothes! Blimey,” he said with disgust, ordering a shot of whiskey.  
She laughed, keeping her eyes on him.  
“They say it’s street fashion, so I guess we’re just not cool enough to understand it. Or too old.”  
“Hey now, you’re not that much younger than me, at least I think so anyway.”  
“No it’s fine, I’m almost twenty-eight. Hopefully that’s not too young for you, or are you disappointed I’m that old?”  
He almost choked on his whiskey and she took pity on him, giggling flirtatiously.  
“Believe me, really young girls are not my division, so to speak.”  
“And what is your division?”  
“Smarts, patience, loyalty.”  
“And nice tits?”  
“You said it, not me.”   
Poor man, he was doing so well trying not to blatantly stare at her chest. She’d thought the night would be dull, and here they were and she was actually enjoying herself. It wasn’t hard to be Andrea, it was just a version of herself before she got deeper into her work. It was nice to see she still had it, because for the life of her she couldn’t even remember her last date. Not that this was date, it was work. Work that just happened to have taken a rather enjoyable turn with a known associate of Sherlock’s that wasn’t annoying.  
“And what about you? Lads aren’t your thing, we’ve established this. Am I too old for you? Getting on in the years and all.”  
She gave him a slow once over, arching an eyebrow. Either he was taking the piss to get a compliment or...oh my God. This man really didn’t quite understand his attractiveness. Slightly lacking in personal self-confidence despite being assuredly competent professionally. His dossier file was shaping up to be quite the set of contradiction. A non-idiotic cop, veteran but still mostly unjaded, smart enough to be on track for promotions but not arrogant enough to turn down Sherlock’s assistance. Maybe there was something to the fish tank Sherlock seemed to be curating.  
Greg Lestrade didn’t have the crisp, biting wit of her boss or the juvenile humor of younger agents, but his sense of humor was more even-keeled and unexpected. In general, the sergeant wasn’t what she expected: he was smart in his own right, fairly straight-forward, held his own in small talk, and despite his years on the force seemed to still be ultimately interested in serving for the greater good. How precious and bit naive to believe in justice so much. But then, she’d been that way once fresh out of uni and wanting to serve the crown.  
When she’d been a girl growing up in a small Scottish village not even worth mentioning, she had loved James Bond movies and remembered her Da teasing her about it, calling her the next Bond girl. But she’d shook her head and laughed, “No Da, I’m going to BE James Bond.”  
He’d patted her on the head and chuckled, as if she’d declared pigs could fly. But she’d always proven when someone told her a thing was impossible, it could be done. She’d gotten top marks at school, aced her way through uni, and found herself working her way through the ranks as a political aide then recruited by Mycroft Holmes himself. Unlike some of the less savory MPs she’d worked with, he recognized while some other men would find her subjectively attractive, his only interest in that went as far as its usefulness for the work. She’d told him that he was a pompous windbag at times but a very intelligent and efficient one so as long as he valued her skills and experience, they’d get crack on just fine. It was the start of a brilliant partnership.  
It had been part of the job to observe Lestrade, it had been part of it still to talk to him under the guise of two strangers brought together by a spilled pint and luck. And she’d had all the info she needed after forty minutes. It’d be so easy to make a polite exit, a thanks for the drink, slip off into the night and never meet again. But it wasn’t exactly on book to find herself walking over London Bridge with him, only to stop midway and stare off at the lights of the distant Tower Bridge. She’d lived in London for near seven years and yet she found the sight underwhelming.  
“You know how you can live somewhere for a long time and there’s certain parts that you never tire of? Where I’m from the main landmark is cattle and a hill, but here there’s just so much.”  
“It is an old city, ancient. Lots of history packed in here, hell, I’ve lived here at this longer than I did in Dover and I still find new things.”  
“Funny that. It’s dirty, smokey, and rush hour is fucking miserable but sometimes when I see that stupid bridge,” she said, waving a hand towards the object in question, “or the Eye from pond in St. James I just sort of feel like this is where I’m supposed to be.”  
“Instead of backwater Scotland?”   
She nodded.   
“Worked hard to ditch the accent too, I can fool the best of them now,” she said with a proud grin, looking at him as a breeze kicked up her hair and blew it across her face. She went to reach up and tuck it behind her ear but he surprised her by reaching up himself and brushing his fingers against her face and tucking the stands behind the crook of her ear.  
“I guess that’s what makes this place great,” he began, his dark eyes looking into hers like she was the best thing he’d ever seen (and rightly so), “Despite the annoyances, you can find what you need and be whoever if you really just go for it.”  
It was technically not part of the assignment and probably mostly a bit of the beer in her system that made her shift forward and press her lips to his. It wasn’t exactly within the mission parameters to take his hand as he led her to his Whitechapel flat for a nightcap. Somewhere between his coat being removed and her top coming off she had done a splendid job telling herself it was for intel. Strictly business. And oh, that lovely thing he was doing with his lips and teeth to her neck was making it quite easy to fall on the sword in the line of duty. Judging from the bulge forming in his trousers, it was likely a nice sword indeed. It had been ages since her last shag, when she’d had an intense but fleeting relationship with an American intelligence counterpart that fizzled out as fast at it happened. They still maintained professional cordiality, but she quickly found she had developed a distaste for dating “inside the house” so to speak. Were she honest, it wasn’t a part of her life that hadn’t ever been an overwhelming priority. She loved her work, her life was exciting and full of purpose, and it wasn’t like she needed another person if she were it the mood to get off.   
But right now, Greg was doing some rather nice things to her and well, there was no rule saying one must not shag those they’re gaining intel on. What would James Bond do? Hell, were Greg a Bond Girl they’d probably have done it some secret police box. The idea of Greg as a Bond Girl gave her a slight chuckle, and when he lifted his head to give her a questioning look, she carded her fingers through his hair.  
“It’s nothing, it’s just a been a while and I’m being a bit silly, is all,” she explained, enjoying the feel of his dark locks slipping through her fingers. “Your hair is so lovely.”  
“Despite the grey.”  
She put her other hand into his hair and pull him in for deep, hungry kiss.   
“Give yourself some credit, it’s very distinguished.”  
He smiled at that, and his was a lovely smile. Maybe they needed to move to the bedroom before her mind kept conjuring up more purple phrasing.   
Really, it was just business. Completely business. Sleeping with the man was just...extra intel. Him getting her off multiple times was a bonus. She was still in control, it wasn’t as if she were suddenly in love with the guy, and a one-off wasn’t going to upset the balance of her careful managed life.  
So when she actually fell asleep instead of making a quick, graceful exit it took her off guard. One moment she was catching her breath after a series of rather fantastic orgasms as they lay on their backs next to each other, shoulders touching, the next there were swaths of sunlight hitting her across the face and she became aware that a) she wasn’t in her own bed, b) she had definitely fallen asleep next to Greg, c) they had somehow ended up spooning and his arm was lightly draped over her abdomen and warm against her ribs, and d) he, or at least his lower parts, were prominently awake.   
For a split second she gave some thought to a quick morning tussle, but she had reports to write and needed to slip back into something less Primark before heading into the office. Carefully, she got out of the bed and got dressed, glancing back at him every now and then.  
It was as she was tucking her shirt into her skirt that he shifted more noticeable, sitting up.  
“Well, this isn’t awkward,” he said, rubbing his eyes.  
“Good morning,” she said, grabbing her phone and shooting off a quick text. Might as well let Mycroft know she’d be late but she had the info required.   
“Running late then?” he asked, scooting to the edge of the bed and looking for his pants and trousers.  
“Something like that, my boss might send MI6 after me if I don’t clock in.”  
She was only half joking.  
“Right then, well listen, last night was really lovely and just so you know I don’t ah...expect anything.”  
God, he was so adorably nervous. It reminded her of the neighborhood border collie ironically skittish around sheep. Well, she wasn’t exactly a sheep but did quite passable job looking like one.   
Maybe it was the bashfulness and the very pleasant memories of the night before that prompted her to do it, but instead of a quick nod and even quicker exit, she found herself splaying her fingers to the side of his neck and pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth.  
“You were lovely,” she said, and he walked to the front door and they stood for a moment in silence as she toed her boots back on, “We’ll always have Southwark. Take care of yourself, Inspector.”  
She gave him another quick kiss and began walking away down the hall.  
“Not Inspector, remember?” he called out after her.  
“Not yet anyway,” she said with a smirk, not bothering to turn around and face him as she did. That should have been the end of the story, where their paths came together briefly then parted. She would fade back into life as Anthea and he would move on and move up in the ranks and they’d go back to being indirectly connected by the Holmes brothers.  
Except the universe, rarely so lazy, was also rarely so neat. She’d never know how he knew, what clues on her or in her report had made him able to suss it out, but barely three minutes into her debriefing Mycroft made a face of slight disgust.  
“Dear God, you didn’t need to fornicate with the man. That’s going well above the line of duty!”  
She looked up from her phone to where he sat across from her behind his desk, and she just shrugged. No point in getting offended or denying it, he always knew.  
“Don’t want to know how you deduced it, don’t care for your personal opinion on the matter either. I got the job done, intel gathered, and just in case the Home Office needs to know just how very good with his mouth Gregory Lestrade is then I’d say we have quite the complete dossier.”  
Mycroft’s face paled more.  
“Some things even I do not need to know.”  
“Oh please, someone have info you don’t? It’d drive you mad after five minutes. And don’t get that sour look at me, you were the one who decided to bring up my sex life.”  
“We are not having this conversation right now.”  
“Mmm aside from how it’s flirting the line of several HR violations?”  
“Anthea, I enjoy the fact that unlike other agents you’ve got the temerity to not let me push you over. But sometimes you’re...you’re so..”  
“Pain in the ass?”  
He arched a brow at her, neither confirming or denying the statement.  
“I assume this was a one time occurrence, or should I expect a wedding invitation in the mail forthcoming?”  
She snorted, barely looking up from her phone.  
“Oh yeah that’s going to happen,” she muttered facetiously, “Who’s next on your ‘Brother Mine’ list?”  
“A pathology student, studies at St. Bartholomew's, name’s Hooper. Margaret Hooper. Goes by Molly.”  
“Relationship to Sherlock?”  
“Ah yes, that is the question at hand. It looks like he’s just using her for hospital favors, but has begun refusing to work with other students or doctors that aren’t her.”  
“Oh, posh boy loves the pathologist? Sounds like his dream girl. They can have tea and talk murders.”  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
“The day my brother loves the pathologist is the day Hell freezes over. Relationships aren’t his area.”  
At this, she did shoot him a pointed look that was not quite teasing.  
“Well, you’d know that better than anyone.”  
He looked away, down at his desk and she knew she’d struck a nerve. For them to work together and her to assist him at the highest levels possible, she had demanded two things: his trust and a complete transfer of knowledge. There were bits of classified info in her brand no one else but Mycroft knew. That not even the Prime Minister or Queen knew. She had worked hard to prove herself worthy of it, hell, she’d literally saved her life last time he was in the field. In many ways, she was closer to him than even his own brother. Some of their colleagues had their tawdry suspicions, whispers that Anthea was Mycroft’s work wife. Whatever, let them talk. She had more operational tactical skill and clearance in her small finger than most of them combined.   
There were some boundaries she and Mycroft did not cross, did not want to cross, and had no plans to cost. They trusted each other implicitly, they would have have come close to taking bullets for each other, but he was just so very Mycroft-like and while she talked a good talk, she wasn’t as unsentimental or unfeeling as the legendary Iceman. But that was okay, because even though he hated to admit it, her feelings had offered a good perspective on more than one occasion. And she’d made it clear to him when he shared his file on Redbeard how she disagreed with his tactics. Still, it was his family, not hers. She left with that, getting the last word is as she went to her desk and began working up the files. Hudson, Martha. Scarpacci, Angelo. Hooper, Molly. Lestrade, Greg.   
His eyes and smile conjured forth in her memory suddenly, and she groaned. No, she didn’t do this. She wasn’t a mooney-eyed person who fixated on a good shag. It was case closed, end of. So she typed up her intel and shifted her attention elsewhere for a few hours. She knew how to compartmentalize, and she bloody well would!  
Much later, when she walked into her cold flat and sat at the plain back sofa contemplating takeaway and Graham Norton, she felt oddly restless and bored. Telly wasn’t going to cut it, maybe a walk would do her good. Get out into the city, feel it’s life, clear her head from thoughts of adorably charming officers.   
She walked along the embankment, London Bridge behind her, Westminster ahead. The city lights bobbled as they reflected off the Thames and she hadn’t given thought to her exact destination and was surprised when her feet led her to New Scotland Yard of their own volition.  
No, she didn’t do this.   
She turned on her heels, set on heading back towards Whitehall. Turn around, walk away. One step at a time, that was it. Andrea Jones had her one night. And she’d almost gotten away, almost made it back towards St. Paul’s and the City when she heard her name, a version of it anyway.  
“Andrea!”  
Fuck. ‘Well,” her mind whispered, “That’s what got you into this, isn’t it?”  
She could keep walking, ignore him like she didn’t hear him. It was London on a busy evening, that happened all the time. Ships passing in the night, missed connections. It was a big city, after all. But he kept calling her name, it made her think of the brilliant things he’d done with his lips and hands and his smile.  
Fuck it. Whatever was compelling her was maybe an itch that needed to be scratched. It didn’t mean a big deal if she was attracted to him, she was only human. A bit more shagging didn’t mean she was suddenly in love. It didn’t have to mean anything beyond what she wanted. She’d gotten that impression from him early on, whatever happened between them he was letting her set the pace.  
So she turned and faced Greg, who was jogging towards her with Big Ben and Parliament looming behind him. She had always enjoyed that view. When he was close enough to stand a foot from her, he put his hands in his pocket and stood rocking on the balls of his feet awkwardly.  
“So...how are you?”  
“Quite well since this morning, thanks.”  
“Yeah, that wasn’t very smooth.”  
“No, it really wasn’t. Are you still on duty or…?”  
“Just got off.”  
“Great, care to get off again?”   
“Oh my God, really? No finesse or even a drink. You just went right for it.”  
“Sorry, I’m only half-joking though. Maybe.”  
“No, it’s fine. Direct, I like that. Honestly, I just didn’t actually expect to see you again.”  
She shrugged with forced casualness.   
“Guess fate had other days. Besides, I had a good time last night. How about we ditch the hour or two of drinks and awkwardly dancing around each other get right to the point? We’re not a long Tube ride from yours.”   
“So just like that?” he asked, clearly surprised. Honestly, so was she. She was making this way to easy.   
“I’m not asking for anything long term, Greg, how about we just see where this goes?”  
“Well, it can start going with me, you, and one of the many surfaces of my flat. Take your pick.”  
“That’s quite pervy,” she chuckled, slipping her hand in his.  
“Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve dated.”  
“Don’t apologize, I kind of like it. Who knew police were so flirty?”  
“Trust me, normally I’m not. I guess you bring it out in me.”  
She smiled up at him, elbowing him gently.  
“Well in our long acquaintanceship of less than twenty-four hours I would hope you find me easy to talk to.”  
“So what changed your mind?” he asked, and she could tell he was still trying to process how he’d gotten so lucky. Honestly, she was still processing it herself. It could be beneficial to keep tabs on him and NSY’s involvement with Sherlock. Brilliant really. And maybe after a week or so she’d get bored, make a clean break, and stick to her original plan of never crossing paths with Lestrade ever again.  
They returned to his flat and barely got the door shut and locked before he fell on her, kissing her urgently and she was grabbing the back of his neck and fumbling with his belt and trousers as he worked his hand under dress.  
“Condom, wallet,” he groaned out against her neck, letting her feel her way into his pockets for his wallet, and she grabbed the foil pocket and tucked it into her bra for later. Seeing that apparently did it for him, because he was pushing her knickers aside and slipping a finger into her welcoming sex. She moaned, rocking her hips towards his hand and reaching down to slip her hand in his pants, finding him definitely ready for her.  
“Enough foreplay, just fuck me already,” she drawled in his ear before scraping her teeth against the shell.   
He kissed her again, biting her lower lip just so and it made her moan again low in her throat. He lifted his hand and found the condom, making quick work of tearing it open and rolling it on and then he was sliding in her, pinning her to the wall with his hips as he grabbed the back of one of her thighs and lifted it to lock around his waist. She tilted her head back, savoring the friction of their bodies colliding. It wasn’t a slow or gentle pace this time. He yet again surprised her, with his willingness for a rough, frantic fumbling against his wall where the coat wrack threatened to bump into his head at any moment. It was the other hand that slid into her hair and tugged at her locks that undid her, causing her cry out as she came harder than she could remember doing in years. His hips continued to roll into hers before a moment later he was groaning out his own release, his breath coming in hot puffs of moisture against her neck. He held her tightly still for a long moment before he lowered her leg and let his hold slacken.  
“That was…” he began, words punctuated with heavy breathing.  
“You’re welcome,” she replied, equally stunned but trying her best to collect herself. It was only a bit of fun, it meant nothing.  
That bit of fun stretched out longer than a week, longer than a month, and soon enough they were spending time in either his flat or hers, and somehow it became less about the sex and actually about spending time together. He was busy a lot with work, so was she, but their short amount of time together was not annoying. She should have gotten tired of him, but somewhere along the line she found his company more convenient than going home to an empty flat, it certain began giving her a credible cover identity, and she was gaining steady, decent information on Sherlock.  
Before she knew it, she was lounging in his sitting room on Sunday mornings with him on the couch, her feet tucked under him as she wore one of his baggy sweatshirts and worked on a crossword puzzle as he reviewing case notes over coffee and it was almost obscene how domestic they were becoming.  
Still, it wasn’t, honestly, like she was in love.  
After months of this and her practically living with him half the time, it shouldn’t have surprised her when suddenly they were engaged although she was still a bit befuddled that she had even said ‘yes’. Long-term shagging was one thing, marriage was harder. The next day, as she walked into the office with her ring on and entered Mycroft’s office, he took one look at her and rolled his eyes.  
“Really? How the mighty have fallen.”  
“Oh sod it, this creates a fantastic cover identity and guarantees steady access to one of your brother’s known associates.”  
“And you thought I was kidding about the wedding invitation.” he said, giving her a pointed side eye.  
She slumped into the chair across from him, exhaling deeply.  
“So you think it’s a bad idea?”  
“I think you’ll do exactly whatever you want for as long as you want. Just do try and not let it blow up in your face.”   
“Careful, that almost sounded like sentiment. I might have to have you disguise yourself as my Scottish father and walk me down the aisle.”  
“You don’t actually expect me to attend this sham of a ceremony do you?” he said, an intense scowl on his face.  
She shook her head.  
“No, too risky. Andrea Jones wouldn’t really run in the same circles as Mycroft Holmes.”  
“Don’t sell Andrea so short.”  
“Okay, this third-person business is tedious. I am Andrea.”  
“Sometimes, anyway.”  
She didn’t want to press on in this conversation about identity anymore but there was one piece of it that still needed sorting.  
“You can help with the paperwork though, right?”  
“Don’t worry, your paper trail will be carefully dealt with on this one. Let’s just hope your groom-to-be remains in the dark about who you are.”  
“That’s easy, I just avoid your brother and compartmentalize. I’ve organized harder tactical ops than this in my sleep.”   
“Don’t get too confident, Anthea, I’d hate to see you get burned.”  
She snorted, delicately.  
“Your show of sentiment moves me. I’m sure while you’re feeling so emotional you’ll see fit to agree to giving me two weeks for a honeymoon?”  
“You do not need a fortnight for your sex holiday. We’re in the middle of several international crises.”  
“And I can still manage half of them as long as I have my mobile and Wifi.”  
“Fine but please don’t do anything maudlin like name your firstborn son after me.”  
“Oh please, that’ll be the day.”  
She left his office to respond to mission critical texts and emails, missing the frown forming on Mycroft’s face. 

 

***

Mycroft knew Anthea was spinning her wheels justifying her actions and her relationship, and so he humored her when her one-off fling with the officer turned into something more. There was no one he trusted more or held so valuably in their organization, and they’d worked hard to build their winning synergy. She somehow used her annoying displays of emotion for the greater good most of the time, when his cold logic wasn’t enough. They were alike in many ways, but opposite it many others and it was those differences that offered practical advantages. She was smart, resourceful, and had always been hungry to move up. He valued her persistence, and she had at one point actually taken a bullet for him. A flesh wound anyway.   
For all his lack of sentiment, for all his mocking her for taking on a ‘pet’, as much as it pained him to admit he worried she was more in over her head than she realized.  
Flirtations with a cop was one thing, a relationship another. Marriage?  
Well, if ever wanted to test just how good she was at long-term cover, they were all about to find out.


	2. Just Be Still With Me

Chapter 2: Just Be Still With Me

  
  
  


_ The Mall, London, 2015 _

 

It was a fortnight before Christmas and Anthea’s “gift” was a stack of mission debriefs to sign off on and a packet of divorce papers. She supposed it wasn’t a surprise, more like a drawn out conclusion to the dragged out death of a marriage. She didn’t blame Greg for putting the nail in the coffin, but the timing could have been more thoughtful. No Dorset Christmas anymore. A shame, she actually liked it there. There was a stillness there she hadn’t known in a long time, but she was not a woman who stayed still long.

And so, after her fourth three-fingers of whiskey and with the hour creeping on midnight, she finally pulled that stack of neatly stapled divorce papers closer to her and perused them. It was fair, all things considered. He was willing to give her the house, shame she didn’t really want to stay. It was the ghost of a life now over, why bother? She wanted nothing from him, she’d taken enough over the years. It was time to pack away Andrea Lestrade for good, time to get back to the work. 

She was Anthea again full time. 

Pouring the remaining contents of the whiskey down her throat, she signed and printed her name on the papers and tucked them away. Her solicitor would deal with it in the morning and it’d be over faster than it all began. She should have been happy; as good as she was, keeping a cover life for almost ten years was bloody hard work. Lines blurred sometimes, identities mingled, and sometimes it was a struggle to remind herself in the mirror who was staring back. She should have felt grateful for this release. This should have been a meaningless effort. But it wasn’t. Funny how her bed felt colder and emptier as the months rolled on. Funnier still, how the sting of his lack of faith in her still hurt. But she’d encouraged it, and here she was. Alone, slightly drunk, impending divorcee. 

Still, for some things he had been lacking in over the years, Greg was a good man and decent and deserved to be happy. And as for her? Well, at least now she had her nights free for work. It shouldn’t be bothering her when it started as a pretense anyway, when it was all fake.

_ Buying your own bullshit now? _ , her mind whispered. 

Well, it was easier than the morose alternative, that she’d spectacularly let something good slip through her fingers for no real fucking good reason other than her own stubbornness. Easier to think of all of Greg’s flaws: the snoring, the drinking, disappearing for days on a case, how he didn’t do the dishes or Sunday washing, how he didn’t always believe in himself enough let alone believed in her enough or her feelings for him. Feelings she wasn’t honestly sure of sometimes in any real sense either but he could have given her some credit.

If she held on to all those petty flaws it almost blocked out the other things like his great sense of humor, his dedication to justice, how great it was when he did put in effort towards her like actually fun date nights and even better shags, and his smile. He had an infuriatingly wonderful smile. Years later it really was unbelievable how much he never realized how gorgeous he was, her Inspector. He was grey now, a silver fox as some might say, and still handsome. But when they’d met? It made her toes curls to think of how attractive he looked the night they met. Maybe that was also the problem, he thought she was out of his league all the time, had her on a pedestal. It had been cute at first, then it was exhausting. Maybe that’s why he grew paranoid and she resentful of his insecurity in himself and towards her. So many maybes. So many what-ifs. Well, no more. Done now. No more Christmas in Dorset wrapped up in one of his giant jumpers or in his arms, no more crap telly on Thursdays with Thai food. They were things at first she thought she was supposed to do for the act, but they slowly became things she liked to do. Well, at least she’d be able to cut back on sodium now.

But if she’d known almost ten years ago how she’d be spending the holidays a decade later, perhaps she would have said no when he proposed. God though, he’d been so sweet about it. They’d gone from shagging to committed relationship so fast that it shouldn’t have surprised her when six months later he was getting down on one knee in the middle of London Bridge and asking her to marry him. 

_ “I’m old, I’m always working, and God knows I wonder why you like me, but I want to keep making you fancy me forever. If you’d like.” _

Nervous but sweet. It was very much Greg. And she found she would like that, she would like that a lot. It’d been so easy to suggest it was for intel, for the work, to keep up some cover to make her able to keep an eye on the NSY, on Sherlock, and a good ‘normal’ identity for travel. And bless Mycroft, when she managed to convince him of her justifications for marriage, he had the restraint to let it appear he believed her. He’d gotten his teasing in, but he carefully made sure not to dissuade her or let on otherwise. It was the Holmes equivalent of a hug or a greeting card. 

He didn’t come to the wedding of course, but she saved him a piece of cake regardless. It’d been a small wedding in Dorset with his family and some hometown neighbors, her side of the church light. The beach wasn’t far away. It was quite a beautiful day. She remembered it well because it was the first time with part panic and part glee that she realized she was happy, that Greg made her happy in some undefinable way. So she allowed herself to feel something honest that day, even if only she knew it was the few honest parts about it all. She could look back on that day and know in that moment, walking down the aisle, that her smile had been real, it had been real.

It felt so long ago. A lifetime ago. A literal other life.

  
  
  


_ Dorset, 2006 _

 

Corfe Castle was small and quaint, everything her colleagues were expecting her to hate but she entirely loved it. There was something deliciously relaxing about wearing barely any makeup, wooly jumpers, and the wholesome country girl thing she had going on there. She hadn’t wanted to love it, but damn if it didn’t remind her of the things she had missed about her home growing up when the her world was young and unblemished. It was quiet there and she didn’t have to worry about operation plans, counterintelligence, rival spies or babysitting Sherlock Sodding Holmes. Perhaps there was something to this honeymoon thing. They were only staying a few days before heading off on the proper holiday, Italy. She’d picked it of course, knowing the Tuscan hills well and longing for a visit that didn’t involve hiding in the trunk of a Fiat for hours or sucking up to a slimeball drug dealer trying to go international.

But first, a few more lazy days strolling around the village, half ten coffees at the tea shop, and bloody fantastic pies and pasties that she refused to worry about going straight to her arse. She was young, newlywed, and life was wonderfully calm for the moment. 

“Pence for your thoughts, Mrs. Lestrade?” he asked, pinky finger linked around hers as they walked down the High Street. She turned to look at him with a smile. She’d danced with men dressed in the finest of suits, but none of them compared to her husband in his rumpled button down and grey rain jacket right then and there.

“I’m thinking you rather like calling me ‘Mrs. Lestrade’, Inspector.”

“Only fair I get a term of endearment to call you too. Would you prefer ‘darling’, ‘my petal’, or ‘my pearl’?”

She snorted.

“Christ no, Mrs. Lestrade will do.”

“She certainly will,” he said with a grin and it struck her then, how much she loved him. 

That thought gave her pause, literally. She had stopped in her tracks blinking and felt a rush of mad panic consume her. Love?  _ Love??? _

But she’d known that was what it was, under the reasoning and justifications, she just hadn’t thought it so clearly.

She felt him squeeze her hand, and when he looked at her with gentle concern she felt the worry melt away. She brought a smile to her face.

“It’s fine, sorry, lost in some woolgathering.”

“You Scots and your sheep.”

“Oi, don’t be such a sassenach,” she laughed, poking him in the arm.

“Oh see, there’s the burr showing. Next thing I know you’ll be draping me in your clan tartan or serving me haggis.”

“Ugh, no way. That shit’s gross.” 

“Oh good, we don’t need to divorce over your bad culinary taste.”

“Already trying to get rid of me, Inspector. The honeymoon must be over.”

He chuckled.

“Oh not yet, Mrs. Lestrade, not yet.”

And much later, when they were alone, he proved how very much right he was. 

They arrived in Florence in early morning, and she had gotten one blissful free day before Mycroft decided to give her a side mission thinking she’d appreciate something ‘exciting’. She, however, was not thrilled to be trying to outrun thugs on a Vepsa across the Ponte Vecchio while trying to convince Greg letting her drive was great because she knew the streets well. Later, she treated herself to a shag and a gelato for the troubles. It  _ was _ her honeymoon, after all. Thankfully, Greg didn’t seem to notice her occasional tense moments looking over her shoulder around the city or the quick texts she fired off when he wasn’t looking. Luckily she didn’t have to be in the trunk when they did a Fiat 500 tour around the countryside, and Greg was surprisingly better at driving double clutch than she was. But she was the superior Vespa driver, he conceded. Mycroft hadn’t bothered her again, perhaps he had gotten some hint that she didn’t need his interference. 

The rest of the trip had been lovely, it had all been lovely. They’d found a house in West London, moved in and for a while it was a plain domestic life that was rather like taking a breather in the midst of a hectic day. But it was a year into their marriage when things became less lovely. Greg missed their first wedding anniversary on the heels of a case lead, she told him it was okay. It wasn’t like she cared about those things but there she was curled up on the sofa, mobile in hand and texting him.

_ How’s it going, Inspector?- A _

_ Bollocks, in a word. Sherlock has a lead though. - G _

_ Hope he wore something nice for you in lieu of our date night.- A _

_ Rather you be wearing something nice for me. Sorry again.- G _

_ It’s fine.- A _

 

And that became her mantra and reply to many things, it was fine. It was always fine. But it wasn’t fine. He’d been forgiven that night when he came home with a dozen roses for her and a late meal of takeaway roast. And in that moment it had been fine, truly. But it was barely a month later when he was hurt on a case, shot at. PC Donovan had called her, and she found herself racing to the hospital and for the first time in a long time she had lost the careful control she kept on things and was a mess. A mess over a fucking flesh wound, of all things, and it made her angry at herself losing her shit and angry at him for putting her in that position. It wasn’t fair really, she knew he was a cop and hell, her line of work was far more dangerous but those logical facts evaporate like popped bubbles as she paced his hospital room furious and yelling at him to be more careful. What if it had been more serious? What if he had died?

“Andi, you knew what you were getting into. Do you think I wanted to get shot?”

“Of course not, you daft man! But that doesn’t mean it’s okay either!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“Christ, don’t apologize. You were shot and I’m being bloody mental,” she sighed, collapsing in the chair. Her rage was slowly replaced with guilt. What if it was her? She could be shot on a mission and would he even know why? Well, if that happened he’d likely be told and learn too late the truth. And it scared her. 

The next day, she threw her cards on the table for the Chief of Staff position and Mycroft gave it to her. It meant no more field work aside from the careful errand or two, more deskwork. It would be tedious. But she was not deterred and just like that, her field work days were over. She thought about telling Greg, telling him everything. She had paced their sitting room one morning, weighing the pros and cons. Pros: no more lying, a few better clothes back in her closet, no more constant worry about it all blowing up in her face. Cons: it all blows up in her face anyway because she was a liar. He would decide he didn’t love her anymore. It would put him in danger.

Before she could make her choice he texted her, another case with Sherlock. An eight. Just like that, her anger returned. His wound was barely scarred over yet and off again into danger. It was his job, she understood, but she didn’t like him relying on a loose cannon like Sherlock, who wouldn’t give two shites if Greg got hurt again or not. And she’d told him as much later in a spectacular row.

“Sherlock’s not that bad of a bloke. He could be a good man someday,” Greg argued, defending the bloody man to her!

“Someday? Someday isn’t today, Greg, and Sherlock Holmes would probably care more about his next fix than if you got hurt! I know who I married but I didn’t think I also inherited Sherlock Holmes as some sort of messed up dowry too!”

“It’s not like that! He’s brilliant and sees things I can’t. Do you know how many cases I’ve been able to solve with his help? It puts bad people off the streets, Andi, keeps people like you safe.”

She snorted at that. Safe? Please. As if she was worried for herself. She was a crackshot with fifteen aliases, knew every means possible to flee London quickly, and was the right hand of the British Government. Oh yes, she was quaking in her boots. 

He’d slept on the couch that night and even though they had eventually made up, the cracks were already slowly but surely fracturing in their young marriage. 

 

It was 2008, and she was on a job in Brixton undercover flirting with a boring MP for information. So of course, of all nights, Sally Donovan would stumble upon her and of course she would tell Greg what she saw. It was the first time he doubted her fidelity, and what could she say? So she lied, the first of many lies. She blamed the long hours of his job, that she’d gotten carried away with some guy flirting with her. She swore she wasn’t cheating on him, that was at least true. But he, with insecurity and disappointment in his eyes, disappeared for three days and spent his nights at the Yard. Eventually he came home, and they went away to Oxford for the weekend to sort things out. She’d held his hand while admiring Radcliffe Camera and almost believed it would all be alright. 

Two years later, 2010, she stood with Mycroft at night outside a crime scene. His brother and his new flatmate, Dr. Watson, were mixed up in some sort of criminal investigation and Mycroft couldn’t resist hovering. A flatmate was a new variable that her boss couldn’t resist keeping an eye on. Greg was there, in the distance and it was flirting with danger for her to even be there too. But they were far enough away, and her hair and clothes were that of Anthea, her makeup much different. It was amazing how well she could change her appearance so simply. Dress a bit frumpy, be heavy on accent and soft on her full brilliance and not even her own husband of years would guess it was her. She was sure he wasn’t thinking much of her at the moment though, convinced again she was cheating. He was drinking more, trying to quit smoking. 

It seemed like all they did was fight and it bored the fuck out of her because she knew she was lying to him, but not about her fidelity. He used to be so lovely to her. She missed how things were before work got in both their ways. And now with Dr. Watson in the mix she had to babysit Sherlock from afar even more.

When she and Greg went on holiday a year later to Ibiza and fought the whole time, he went back to England and off to Dartmoor. Pissed, she decided to leave this time for a few days to the Kensington flat she kept for work. Later, she found out Mycroft had Greg go to Dartmoor and wondered when her boss and husband got so chummy. Maybe she should tell Greg who she is. But she wouldn’t. She was brave in so many other ways but this.

Their days became more avoiding each other except at bedtime, living more around each other than truly with each other. It was, of course, not helped by Sherlock continually deducing she was supposedly having an affair. She wondered if at times he was making shit up to sound so clever or isolate Greg to be at his beck and call. But their marital issues were both distracted by the larger looming threat of Jim Moriarty. Myroft insisted Anthea make things work to keep her cover, it was the safest place for her until the situation was dealt with. He purposely cut her from anything putting her on Moriarty’s radar. She was pissed at being backburnered by work, by Greg, by life. What a banner year it had been, and she was started to be sick of the men in her life.

But as mad as she was, the moment she found out Moriarty had put an assassin on Greg, one of the many things that had motivated Sherlock Holmes to do something honorable for once and fake his death to protect her friends, she had been absolutely livid. Their marriage might have been  in ruins, he having left her for weeks because he was convinced she was fucking some PE teacher, but that didn’t mean she was completely hearted. She was furious at Moriarty’s actions and she’d kill him herself if he hadn’t done the world the favor first. 

She took some holiday time, but it was not so much a vacation as much as fulfilling a vindictive pleasure in tracking down the assassin who had set sights on Greg and killing him on a quick weekend in Berlin. It wasn’t easy, he had beat her up fairly good as well, but she succeeded in her off the books mission, routing through Schiphol to handle Sherlock moving through borders successfully on his uncertain mission to completely dismantle Moriarty’s network. Sherlock seemed struck by her coldness as they waited in the KLM Lounge.

She had sighed, exasperated.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble for me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Me? Blame my brother, he’s the one who orders you about when I never asked for a nanny.”

She stood up, ready to leave him as they called her flight number.

“You really are an ungrateful prick, Mr. Holmes. Good luck on your mission.”

He had the good sense to not reply, and she merely nodded her head at him and made her way to the plane. She winced as she sat in the seat, the bruises on her back still fresh. Good thing she was on the outs with her husband, how would she explain it?

When she returned, Greg had sent her a text. A separation, officially. Well then. Between Sherlock ‘dying’ and everything else he just couldn’t do any of this anymore, he couldn’t keep being the fool. She told herself she was glad,  she could maybe go back to her old life, but damned if she wasn’t sure she even wanted it anymore. Marriage had made her soft in some ways, God help her. 

Moreover, she was also annoyed at how passive aggressive he was being and not even trying to win her back or fight for her. Every time they made up it was mostly because fighting was too tiring. She told him he could stay in the house, she had a company flat she could crash at. So she herself into work more than ever, spending the next two years on mission after mission to the point she couldn’t tell sometimes which life she was living. 

When she came home briefly at times to London, she and Greg had tried to meet for dinner but it always ends in either awkward silence or random, confusing shagging in their house that wasn’t really a promise of reconciliation and more about loneliness and longing for something that seemed so far gone.  

And then, November of 2014, Sherlock Holmes came back. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Going Round and Round the Same Old Circuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never been a clean split for Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade, even spies have feelings.

_ 2014 _

  
  


She and Greg were conveniently separated, had been for the better part of a year, so she doesn’t have to attend Dr. Watson’s wedding. She hadn’t missed noticing he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring, the few times they’ve met for coffee or lunch to ‘discuss things’ which sometimes led to them going separate ways annoyed with each other, but sometimes it led to him spending the night. Their strange sort of half-marriage, the one she kept insisting was mostly a farce anyway to Mycroft, was beginning to put a strain on her. She’d been busier than ever between the Magnussen business and Moriarty message, but someone she and Greg had manage one more Christmas together in London because there had been nowhere else for either to go. She hadn’t had anywhere else to go in a long time.

 

She had made a small roast, they opened their Christmas crackers, drank too much wine and of course he spent the night. If she closed her eyes hard enough she could pretend it was years earlier and they were in the country, before doubt and bitterness poisoned the the thing between them, when she could let herself accept what she felt. But it had all gone wrong, and she so desperately clung to a sense of practicality: it was a cover, she had been confused about her feelings, maybe it wasn’t really love after all and just a convincing lie after all. 

 

As she listened to his quiet breathing next to her, she knew in her bones how utterly stupid that line of reasoning was and had always been. She moved closer and wrapped an arm around her, enjoying his solid warmth. She really wasn’t a cuddler, and usually he’d been the one to initiate any sort of spooning, but with everyone about to slip away from her she wanted to hold while she could, if only for the moment.

 

The next morning, she awoke to sound of him up and about as he got dressed and when he realized she was awake he shot a hesitant glance at her.

 

“Have to go, work and all,” he said, looking away from her. There it was, the regret. Sometimes she wished he would just leave then, leave and never come back because it’d probably hurt less than this half-life together that always made him look at her like  _ that _ . And so he left, and hours later the call from Mycroft came: Sherlock was returning to England, get the coat and meet them for the debrief.

 

Because of course, there was that other shoe waiting to drop and as it turned out, two years away hadn’t done much for Sherlock Holmes’ personality. Nevermind good operatives died getting the intel Mycroft seemed to think his brother could do something with. Nevermind Sherlock seemed to think London had just stopped during the time he was gone and nothing had changed. Nevermind that she still blamed Sherlock for his part in her failed marriage. She doubted he noticed her cared about the roll of her eyes when he demanded his precious coat, his suit of armor. And like some sort of lady in waiting she helped him put it on. 

 

Later, at the office, Anthea finally made the request that had been on her mind for years: to no longer be assigned to anything relating to Sherlock Holmes. 

 

“A shame, you’re the only agent I would trust to help with such delicate matters,” Mycroft drawled, but didn’t seem very surprised. She had made it clear years ago she didn’t really care for Holmes the Younger. 

“I’d say it’s nothing personal but well…”

“Still blame him for ruining your sham marriage?”

She huffed. 

“It didn’t help he told my husband I was cheating on him with a PE teacher.”

“What PE teacher? Don’t I keep you too busy to even have any time for an affair?”

“You, Sir, you’re the PE teacher.”

Oh, but Mycroft’s face in that moment was priceless. 

“Well then, if that’s all…” he said a moment later, and she knew it was his way of dismissing her. 

With Sherlock back and the “game” afoot, she saw less and less of Greg. 

It hardly surprised her.

  
  


_ 2015 _

 

A few months before she had received the divorce papers, she’d been on a tough mission in Turkey and it almost got her killed. The intel hadn’t been complete, she had been outnumbered, a few good operatives lost. But she had managed to get out of there with only a flesh wound, some dehydration, and few bruises. It was the emotional side of it, something she’d always known how to compartmentalize, that took her breath away. She had been rattled, properly so, at the idea of dying this time. Perhaps she’d gotten complacent with the desk job for so long, but in truth it was knowing that despite where they stood she had something this time she’d be leaving behind and how would one even explain it to him?

‘Sorry, mate, your wife died overseas and by the way, she’s a secret agent and always was.’

But what really shook her was the regret, hitting her so hard it almost eclipsed the physical wounds. Had she wasted so much of her time and happiness, and for what? What even did make her happy anymore? 

The job had been her life for most of her adult life. It had been the only thing she had, the only thing she expected to have and she had made peace with her lonely lot in life. And then she met a stupidly charming detective in some shabby pub and it all went to hell. She had become spoiled, got a taste of companionship and didn’t even know what to do with it until it was sliding through her fingers.

Maybe that’s why it happened, after the mi6 doctors patched her up and the bruises faded so there’d be no questions. She could make up some bullshit about the gash on her arm, she was an expert on bullshitting others. She called around Greg’s flat at midnight, knowing he was likely still up and not surprised when he answered the door in his pajamas looking confused that she was at his doorstep so late without a call or text. 

“Andi, what...is something wrong?” he asked, and she never thought she’d be so grateful at the level of concern on his face directed towards her. He made room for her to enter and shut the door, and she shucked her coat off, hanging it on the hook and she knows he notices and realizes this is not going to be a quick chat.

“I needed to see you,” she says quietly, and with only a few inches between them it was easy enough for her to close the gap between them and wrap her around him. He doesn’t hug her back right away.

“Andi, you can’t just…,” he says, finishing his words with a sigh. He doesn’t need to say it.

“I know,” she mumbled into his chest, letting it warm her cold cheek. They don’t talk much after that, and it becomes another confused night together and her mumbling an apology in the morning when she leaves.

 

She should have known it then, but it would be the last time they’d sleep together. She wondered how long he waited after to call his solicitors to draft up the papers. A week? Two maybe?

So be it.

 

After a Christmas and New Year’s alone, 2016 came along and Greg had decided to move on from the looks of it. Fine with her, she was busy cleaning up mess after mess: the AGRA fall out, Mycroft being distracted by Sherlock’s latest drug rebound, and then Sherringford. What a spectacular fucking train wreck that had been, and weeks to clean up. Afterwards, she had noticed the shift in Mycroft’s behavior. Leave it to family to be the thing that finally cracked his ice in the end, not that’d she know anymore. 

She had wanted to be part of the recovery mission, but then NSY had to intervene and she knew she had to remain behind. Can’t have the ex learn all her skeletons, after all. Why had she told herself ten years ago it was a great plan? She was dumb in her twenties, she thought, frustrated at monitoring the mission from afar. She had to dodge around Greg at the hospital while trying to visit Mycroft and work, because apparently Sherlock had told Greg to look after for Mycroft. As if she wouldn’t have been already on top of that but no, Sherlock Holmes probably forgot most of the time she even existed. 

It seemed though Mycroft had had enough of her resentment by the end of his hospital stay.

“You really ought to get over this petty grudge, he isn’t entirely to blame for your circumstances,” he drawled, while tucking into a treacle cake on the excuse he was on the mend and needed to keep his blood sugar up.

“He kept telling my husband I was cheating on him and pretty much cost me my marriage,” she groaned, tired of the same conversation.

“As if you cared about your husband…”

And that was about the moment she was so fucking done with all, that for the first time in ages she snapped at him, the man who could start wars with one phone call.

“Of bloody course I cared!” 

But instead of contrite, Mycroft had seemed oddly pleased about her outburst. 

“Ah. I had suspected. Our line of work is not kind in these regards, but I am sorry it’s been causing you duress.”

“Careful, sir, that sounds an awful lot like sentiment,” she said, crossing her arms and feeling cross. He rarely used emotional manipulation on her, and she would never get entirely used to it. But such was the price of working for Mycroft Holmes. 

“Perhaps it’s not a bad thing after all. Tell me this, in honesty, did you love him?”

She sighed loudly, shoulders slumping. She had never expected to have this conversation with him of all people, but they’d always been straight with each other and who else could she confide in? Maybe the hospital stay really was boring him so much that her tedious lack of life was suddenly interesting. Very well then, confession was good for the soul, right?

“Maybe. Who knows? Maybe it was some ambiguous emotion I tricked myself into thinking was love.”

“And was it an ambiguous emotion driving you to kill Vasily Dobrev in Berlin years ago for having the gall to point a gun on your husband?”

“You knew?”

“Of course. The paperwork was easy enough to swipe clean.”

“Thank you.”

“Consider this: you have never once disobeyed an order, except this one time to pursue a man who would have gladly put a bullet into your husband’s brain. What might we deduce of your heart?”

She said nothing, knowing the answer was so glaringly obvious once she looked past her layers of denial. 

“Too late now, we’re divorced and the only date I have is with Sanjay the clerk at Waitrose on Thursday nights.”

“And since when have you ever given up so easily? I know you’ve told yourself it was for the work, but you never needed to interact with Lestrade past the original mission that night. But you did, doing a commendable job justifying it as just business. But let’s be plain, Anthea, you wanted him and you lied to everyone, yourself included, to keep him.”

“And you still let me? Knowing I was lying.”

“You were happy again for the first time in a long time. It was as simple as that. Now, you better go. He’s likely due to be hovering any moment now.”

“Thank you, sir. I mean it.”

“Anthea? It can be a lonely life, this one. But only if you let it be.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
